Screw You, Dad
by Beyond the Pages
Summary: A oneshot about how House decided he wanted to be a doctor, and how he has always felt about his father. Inspired by Sairra's oneshot called Unbearable Seeing.


Screw You, Dad

When I was ten years old, I was watching a TV show with a friend. Well, he was sort of like a friend. He was more like an acquaintance. Every now and then, I invited some of the other army brats over for a get-together, as Mom liked to call it, so that Dad would stay off my case. It had gone on like that for years, and I had gotten used to it, except for the fact that I hated those kids.

All they ever wanted was to be just like their fathers, or brothers. They never wanted to decide for themselves. Mom allowed Dad to do this because she wanted to avoid a fight. Whenever they fought, it was always about me. Dad hated the fact that I didn't want to become an army General like him. He was so disappointed in me whenever I defied his wishes and decided that I wanted to be something else.

When I was five, I wanted to be a bus driver. And when I was eight, I wanted to be an airplane pilot.

And at ten years old, watching an army TV show with this kid I barely knew or even liked – and who barely knew or liked me – I saw an army doctor heal a wounded soldier, and an idea came to me. What if I became an army doctor? Then Dad wouldn't be disappointed because I'd be in the army, and I would be able to be something other than a General.

Dad came in just then, and I ran to him, telling him that I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I could see the coming disappointment already, in his face. He thought I wanted to be something other than in the army. Anything else but the army would have infuriated him, making him angrier than I could have possibly imagined.

"I want to be an army doctor!" I declared, looking up at him, imagining his pride for me already.

But the pride never came. He scowled. "Being an army doctor is no better than being a real doctor," he said in a voice that made me feel small and belittled. "The only good job is one where you're actually _in_ the army; in the ranks, battling the enemy. _That_ is something to be proud of!"

Then he walked away, leaving me alone with this kid, who was staring at me blatantly, as though he had never before encountered someone who didn't want to be in the army. But that was because I was the only one in the whole school – a school full of army brats – who didn't.

When I was sixteen, I was with a friend – a real friend – at a junk shop. We were hanging out, having a good time, and throwing pieces of trash at anyone who passed beneath our hiding place. It was fun for the time, until the warden came around and chased us out.

We ran, breathless and laughing. I fell and scraped my knee on a piece of trash; an old can, maybe. I can never remember exactly what it was. It started to bleed, but I ignored it. If there was one thing my father had taught me, it was that something like pain was to be ignored, and the real purpose was to be focused on.

At first, when we got back to his place, there was no problem. I cleaned my leg, put a Band-Aid on it and borrowed a pair of my friend's jeans, because mine had ripped at the knee, where I had scraped it.

I stayed at his house overnight, because Dad wasn't around; he was at the base, so I could hang out with my friends. He had this idea that family was supposed to spend every evening meal together. And then he went out with his army buddies fishing or hunting, and talking about army stuff.

We spent the evening watching horror movies on TV until my friend's mom made us go to bed because it was past midnight, and she was sure we would have nightmares. We didn't, and we laughed at the thought. We were men. Men didn't have nightmares.

I always had nightmares, but never from watching horror movies. The nightmare was always that my father would be disappointed in me, which he always was. I learned to live with the nightmares, though, so it didn't bother me as much as it would otherwise have.

The next morning, my knee was swollen and puffy, and was oozing pus and blood. It looked like an animal bite of some sort. My friend's mom saw it when she came into our room and screamed. Then she slapped me across the head when I told here there was nothing wrong, and she made me dress so she could take me to the emergency.

She did, and we had to wait four hours before we were admitted. The doctor had no idea what was wrong with my leg, and asked me what had happened. I told him that I had fallen and scraped my knee while running. I didn't tell him I had been in the junk yard because I didn't think it mattered and because I didn't want my father to find out. He would blow it all out of proportion.

The doctor called in some more doctors and nurses, and none of them knew what to make of me. They X-rayed my leg, and nothing showed up except a normal leg. It was obviously an infection of some sort, but they didn't know what kind.

I was left in the hospital overnight, and my parents were notified. I was terrified that my father would come to the hospital and yell at me with that disappointed look on his face. But only Mom showed up, with a bag of cookies. She told me that my dad hadn't been home when the call came, and if luck showed itself, I'd be out before he came home, and he would never have to know.

I thanked her, and opened the bag of cookies. Peanut butter, my favorite. Isn't it strange what kind of details you remember in a situation like that?

That evening, after Mom had gone home to make sure that Dad stayed put on his hunting and fishing trip, I went to sleep, feeling very tired.

In the middle of the night, I woke. The janitor was standing by my bedside. He was looking at my bandaged leg.

"What's wrong with you, son?" He asked. I had seen him earlier that day. He had tried to speak to the doctor, but the doctor had ignored him, and dismissed what he had been saying. I knew he had been talking about me because he had kept on pointing in my direction.

"I don't know," I replied, disliking the term "son".

"What have the doctor's told you?" He asked. His name tag said, "Stan".

"That they don't know, either," I replied.

"Do you know what you cut your leg on?" He asked.

I nodded. "An old can, I think," I said. I leaned against the hospital pillow. I was tired.

I closed my eyes. The next morning, the doctors told me they knew what it was, and that I would be out of there by the end of the next day. They never mentioned it, but I always knew that it was the janitor who had helped me.

And ever since that day, I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to be the one who everyone thinks is wrong, and at the last minute saves the patient's life, because then people wouldn't be disappointed with me.

"Greg, the army is the way to go," Dad said when next I said what I was going to be when I graduated.

"Screw you, Dad," I replied, and left.

I never did take it back, and I never spoke to him about it again.

The last time I saw him was when I left for college. I looked at him, a little candle of hope flickering inside of me. Perhaps he would still be proud of me, that I was determined to be a doctor.

I looked at him. "Bye, Dad," I said.

He glared at me with disappointment and dislike. When he didn't speak, the candle flickered and went out.

I turned on my heal, and after a moment, turned back. "You aren't in control of my life anymore," I said. "So screw you, Dad. I'm going to be whatever I want, and there's nothing you can do to change it. Either accept it, or ignore it. The choice is yours. But you have no control over your son anymore."

After a long moment of silence, he spoke. "I have no son."

Those were the last words he ever said to me. I turned and left, and I never saw him again until his funeral twelve years later.


End file.
